


Damn Your Love, Damn Your Lies

by Luckynumber13



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Hermes is a Good Dad, and Hadestown owns my entire soul, because Orpheus and Eurydice deserved better, multiple other greek gods and characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-08-23 06:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20238067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luckynumber13/pseuds/Luckynumber13
Summary: The story of Orpheus and Eurydice has been told over and over again through a cycle that keeps repeating itself. Hermes has gotten tired of watching a boy grow up, fall in love, and fall apart. The cycle cannot continue.





	1. Break the Chain

_ See, someone’s got to tell the tale _   
_ Whether or not it turns out well _ _   
Maybe it will turn out this time_

This time.

Time meant very little to a god. Hermes stopped counting the years when the humans tried to change to another system of keeping the calendar. It just wasn’t worth it to try and figure out what they were doing to measure the passage of time. All that really mattered were the seasons and the people he had to ferry to their final destination.

And the lovers, of course.

As sure as the sun rose in the sky each day, there would be one morning where a baby boy, a muse’s son, was dropped on his doorstep. The scenery changed, the people looked and spoke in new ways, but the song always repeated.

_ Just leave him there _ , sang three voices in the back of his mind. _ Wouldn’t it be a kinder fate to die as an infant? _

The Fates might have had a point, if it weren’t for the fact that there was no way that he would ever let a child die like that. No, he always took him in. Orpheus was fated for tragedy, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a few happy years.

Hades and Persephone never seemed to remember. That was why there were times when he saw the King of the Underworld be merciful toward the boy, while he was ruthless in other cycles. Hermes was the only one who had to see it through from beginning to tragic end. The Fates stood by, but they weren’t the ones telling the story. They were never moved by it. It wouldn’t do for the Fates to have emotions.

There was one other who could be swayed, though, he mused as a gift arrived for the boy on his first birthday.

It was always a stringed instrument. In the old days, it was a literal lyre, but now it was just as likely to be a violin or ukulele. Just as long as it was light enough for travel. This time, it was another guitar made so perfectly that it would never go out of tune. Orpheus would still call it a lyre, though.

The card on top of the gift always held the same inscription, too.

_ For the poet. -A _

How many times had he seen those words in different languages across the millennia? It was bad enough that the boy’s mother abandoned him, but the note always annoyed Hermes.

That was when an idea struck. Why was he the one stuck with telling the story, anyhow? That was never part of his job! Thousands of years, and he was only now realized that he was tricked into carrying the load for someone else. For a moment, he was impressed. It was probably very hard to trick the god of trickery.

With a semi-formed plan in his head, he put the guitar on his back, took the one-year-old Orpheus in his arms, and flew to catch up with the sun.

This would be an impossible task for mortal men, even though they tried to reach the gods multiple times, whether by climbing mountains or building towers. Hermes, however, had no such problem getting to the domain of the sun.

He didn’t knock on the palace’s golden doors. There was no lock that could keep him out anyhow. The god he was looking for was, predictably, lounging on a lavish couch he picked up sometime during the baroque period and strumming tunelessly on his lyre. This was an actual lyre, and it was one he always had.

“Hermes!” Apollo exclaimed without moving anything but his head to face the god who just forced his way into his estate. “It’s been too long.” He paused, looking at the child sleeping peacefully in Hermes’ arms. “Why did you bring the child?” His voice was as cold as his stare.

“Not happy to see your son?” Hermes asked, knowing the answer already. If he was going to face the man whose fault this whole story was, he was going to do it with everything at his disposal.

“That is _ not _ my son,” the sun god hissed, finally standing and tossing the lyre that just barely held his attention to the side. “Orpheus died thousands of years ago.”

“And he comes back every generation.” The two were now face to face, and Hermes stood defiant, looking Apollo - who was a head taller - in the eyes. “Whether or not you want to believe it, this boy is your son. He should be your responsibility, along with his repeated fate.”

“He wasn’t killed by my people!”

“He was dead before the Maenads got to him, and you know it,” Hermes countered. “Dead because you needed a story the mortals could hear.”

“They needed to know,” Apollo defended as he started pacing the room. “They needed to understand that sometimes you can try and try and still fail. That is the point of the story. It’s a tragedy.”

“It’s a punishment.” That caused the bright one to pause. “The story has been told. They didn’t forget it. But every generation, I’m forced to watch it play out, ushering all the characters from point to point. I have watched her die and him fail countless times. You were there to write the story, but _ I’m _ the one you left to tell it.”

The silence of the two standing there could have stretched on for an eternity. Time meant nothing to a god. Kingdoms could rise and fall during the time two gods stared each other down.

That day, mercifully, it only lasted a few seconds.

“So change it.”

“What?”

“Change it,” Apollo repeated. “If you’re the one telling the story, and you don’t like it, you change it.” The quizzical look from the messenger god prompted him to continue. “Stories change every time someone tells one. I’m not the one sending Orpheus to the Underworld anymore. You are.”

The words cut more than Hermes thought they would. He couldn’t fathom what he was being accused of. “If you think I’m the one who sends the two of them to their fates -”

“Hermes!” Apollo cut him off. “Are you a god or are you not? You’ve never been one to play by anyone’s rules but your own. It’s not my fault that you’re not clever enough on your own to figure this one out.” He paused again, finally moving his gaze down to the slumbering child. “That boy is not my son,” he murmured, just loud enough for Hermes to hear. “The way you seem to care about him, he could be yours.” His voice was much kinder now. “He is your responsibility. He has been for a long time.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“A storyteller holds more power over the story than anyone thinks,” was the reply. “Good luck.”

Hermes didn’t even notice that Apollo was ushering him out of the palace until a door closed in his face.

“Alright,” he whispered to the baby who seemed like he was about to stir from his dreams. “Let’s fix your story.”


	2. Songbird

“So what does the story of Odysseus tell us about the gods?”

Orpheus was now six. Like all the other cycles, Hermes taught the boy to sing. He didn’t need much training to learn how, but there was a difference between raw talent and good technique.

Unlike the other cycles, though, Hermes told him old stories. The best way to prepare a boy to face a world of gods, he decided, was to make sure he knew what he was up against.

The speakeasy that Hermes ran and lived above was quiet during the day, but he had to make sure it was at least tidy. Orpheus had recently taken to sitting on top of the bar and swinging his legs back and forth.

“They’re fickle,” the little boy answered. “Never anger the gods, because they are quick to anger and slow to forget.” The words were memorized and recited, but one day, he was sure Orpheus would actually understand what they meant. “Never rely on a god to help you out, because they probably aren’t listening, but if one offers you help, always take it. Refusing a god’s help is almost as bad as insulting them.”

“Exactly!” Hermes gave him a wide smile before seemingly pulling a wrapped hard candy from the air and giving it to him. “Never assume you know what a god is thinking or what they’re going to do.”

Orpheus thoughtfully popped the candy into his mouth and seemed to either be considering Hermes’ statement or the candy’s flavor. There was generally an even chance for either.

“But you’re a god, aren’t you, Mr. Hermes?” It was a question to which he already knew the answer, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t voice it. “You went to Calypso’s island to get her to let Odysseus go. Why do you say that I shouldn’t trust the gods?”

_ Smart boy, _ he thought.  _ Already trying to puzzle out his world. He’ll get himself into more trouble with his questions if I’m not careful. _

“It’s not that you shouldn’t trust the gods,” Hermes clarified. “But you should never believe that they will always come to your aid when you need it.” It was an important distinction to make. He was going to do all he could to keep what was fated to happen from happening, but if Orpheus had to go to the Underworld, he was going to go there with the knowledge that Hades’ test was not meant to trick him.

The irony that  _ he _ was the one saying the gods were not going to trick Orpheus was not lost on him. He’d explain the nuance to the boy after he survived everything.

“Lady Persephone always comes when we need her.”

“True enough,” he nodded. The last Orpheus fixed what was broken in the seasons. Persephone never arrived too late or left too early anymore. According to her Hadestown was different, even if she couldn’t remember why. Hades had softened some, though he still held absolute power. “But that is because of her agreement with her husband. She doesn’t come because we ask her. Didn’t I tell you the story of Hades and Persephone?”

The boy nodded, humming the old tune that went along with the story he was told. Hermes never taught him the tune, though. Another constant. Orpheus knew that melody throughout all of his lives. His fingers were too small to play the guitar he was gifted, but he was already reaching for it, plucking out notes and figuring out to play.

***

At twelve, he was already composing.

“What are you working on, little poet?” Persephone asked him one spring as she leaned over the bar to watch him feverishly write notations in a book.

“I’m working on a song,” he answered. “It isn’t finished yet. It’s my favorite story that Mr. Hermes told me.” He looked up at her, all the childlike innocence in his eyes that the world couldn’t seem to dim, no matter how hard life seemed to be. His smile reminded the goddess of a sunrise over a flowering field.

“What’s the song about?”

“It’s the story of Eros and Psyche.”

“A love song?” Persephone asked, a little confused.

“It’s a song about a love story,” Orpheus responded. “I think it’s his favorite, too. He seems to like telling it anyway.”

“He’s very good at telling stories,” she nodded. She never understood why Hermes was so interested in teaching the boy these stories as if it was the most important thing he would ever learn, but it was easier to accept the messenger’s eccentricities than to question them. He had so many.

“He’s talented,” Persephone said as she went over to talk to Hermes, who was looking fondly at the boy.

“He should be.”

“Did his father teach him how to write music?”

Surprisingly, Hermes looked offended, but only for a moment. Any mortal wouldn’t be able to tell a god’s subtle and sudden mood changes, but she wasn’t a mortal. 

“He only gave him the instrument,” Hermes answered, shaking his head. “They’ve never even spoken.”

“He’s not curious where he came from?”

“I think he knows.” It was hard to keep Orpheus from any information he wanted to get his hands on. “He’s read about everyone. If he were interested in meeting anyone, I’d let him, but he doesn’t. He likes the world of men.”

“Are you sure he’s not interested in meeting one god in particular?” Persephone asked, eyeing Hermes.

“Which one?”

“Aphrodite,” she answered. “You seem to have fostered a deep interest in love stories. He’s writing a song about Eros and Psyche.”

“He likes that story a lot,” Hermes agreed. “So I think he would not be interested in meeting Aphrodite in the least. But I don’t think I’m the reason he’s interested in love stories. He’s got a poet’s soul. They all end up like that.”

That was part of the reason, at least. Ultimately, he hoped that Orpheus would internalize the idea that love and trust will sustain someone through any challenge. It was the only way this would work.

“How are things down below?” he asked, changing the subject.

“They’re getting better, slowly,” Persephone admitted. “You know my husband. Slow and deliberate. The work is still hard, but it isn’t completely unfair. He’s still a ruthless businessman.”

“If he were anything less, his brothers would come for him.”

Persephone laughed. “They could try. They don’t have any sway in the underworld, no matter what they believe. Zeus is only a king aboveground.”

“You’re just tempting fate by saying that during the summer, you know. He might hear you.”

“Only if he cared about listening to someone other than himself.”

The two of them shared a laugh. Neither really cared what the other gods thought of the way they acted. They were both sort of outcasts when it came to gods. Persephone was not an Olympian, and Hermes preferred to be on the roads and the boundaries. It was long since they both decided that it was better to avoid the gods as much as possible. Hermes was going to make sure that Orpheus did the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will give a prize to the first person who guesses what the chapter titles have in common


	3. Brown Eyes

“Come home with me.”

Hermes had to bring his palm to his forehead. Orpheus was eighteen and completely obsessed with the idea of love. It was his fault, really. He was determined to make sure the boy knew to trust in himself and trust in love. Maybe he taught that lesson a little too well.

The singer was holding a flower out to an equally pretty young lad. Hermes knew that Orpheus was extremely susceptible to the ones with dark eyes and pretty smiles.

With an inward chuckled, the god noticed that the proffered flower was, in fact, a hyacinth. Apollo may have denied that this incarnation was his son, but there was no denying that they had similar tastes in romantic partners.

Orpheus didn’t know that he was much luckier than his father. Not a single one of the people he flirted with had jumped off a cliff.

“Does that line usually work?” the young man asked with a laugh and a raise of his eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Orpheus admitted, not backing down just yet. The flower was still in his hand. “I just thought I’d try.”

“It’s a bit strong for a pick-up line. How about giving me your name?”

“Orpheus.”

“Well, Orpheus,” he said, finally taking the flower and pushing out the other chair at the table with his foot, “my name is Jason. Have a seat?”

Orpheus moved a little too fast to accept the offer and nearly tripped over one of the chair’s legs in his rush to sit down.

Hopefully, Hermes mused, the boy would be more sure of himself by the time Eurydice showed up in the next few years.

“You really thought that line would work?” Jason laughed with a sound that reminded Orpheus of wind chimes on a crisp fall afternoon. “I have to admire your bravery, at least. So, I’m guessing you’re local, then?”

“Very,” the singer replied with a chuckle of his own. “I, uh…” He pointed to the ceiling. “Live above the bar.” He smiled sheepishly as the blond gave another hearty laugh.

“You ever thought about comedy?” he asked. “This would be some good material, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“No,” Orpheus shook his head. “Actually, I’m a singer. And I’m a musician.”

“Really?” Jason raised an eyebrow before noticing a beautiful guitar sitting by the corner of the bar. “Is that your’s, then?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s mine. I could play something for you, if you want?” He rushed over to grab the instrument that sported the image of an ancient lyre on the back that he drew when he was little.

“What sort of music do you play?”

“Oh, any kind. I write a lot of songs.” He answered.

“Play one for me?”

Jason didn’t really need to ask as Orpheus’ fingers were already idly picking away at the strings. It was simply a reflex to holding the guitar in his hands. He could never simply hold it and stay quiet.

“What sort of song do you want to hear?” he asked. “Most of my songs are based off the stories I was told growing up. They’re all about heroes and love stories.”

“Love songs, then?” Jason asked, with an eyebrow raised.

“Well, yes, but they’re not all the same,” Orpheus explained. “A lot of them end tragically.”

“Why write sad songs?”

“The ending isn’t the point,” he defended. “A lot of the stories end tragically through no fault of the lovers. The world just ended up conspiring against them, but through everything, they remained devoted to each other.”

“It sounds beautiful the way you describe it,” Jason smiled.

Orpheus nodded as he began to play, almost immediately getting lost in the music. He wasn’t just singing. He was telling the story of two doomed lovers who didn’t let what came between them keep them apart.

The regular patrons in the bar may have heard the song before, but the entire room went silent as he sang. It was always like this when he sang. It seemed as if the world stopped just to listen to him. Ignorant as he was of his godly parentage, he didn’t realize that was almost literally what happened.

Orpheus was so wrapped up in the music that he nearly missed Jason getting up to leave at the end of his song. He was just able to sling his guitar on his back and run after him.

“Where are you going?” he asked once he finally caught up. “Did you not like the song? Was something wrong?”

Jason looked Orpheus up and down before sighing. “That’s not it,” he replied, smiling sadly and shaking his head. “It’s a beautiful song, and I hope you find the right person to sing it to.”

“What do you mean?” It made no sense. If he liked the song, Orpheus didn’t understand why he would decide to just leave. “The song isn’t _ for _anyone in particular. It’s just a song.”

“It might seem that way to you, but that’s not what I heard. You’re looking for someone who can be all of that for you. Someone who can stay by your side.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Jason shook his head. “Look, I was never planning on staying in this town for longer than a night. I’m not gonna get your hopes up for something that I can’t do.” He stepped closer to Orpheus and placed a hand on his shoulder before leaning down and kissing him. “I’m sorry, Orpheus. I truly am. And I know that you’re going to find someone to sing for who won’t leave.” He left the singer stunned as he turned to leave, and this time, Orpheus didn’t follow.

Dejected, he slumped back to the bar and sat down at a table in the back.

“Where’d your friend go?” Hermes asked, appearing seemingly out of nowhere.

“He left,” Orpheus answered, fighting to keep his voice even. “He said he liked my song but it wasn’t ‘for him,’ or something and that he didn’t want to disappoint me by not being able to stay.” He swallowed thickly, trying hard to not appear as upset as he felt. “Mr. Hermes, I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Hermes moved a chair to sit next to the boy who was practically his son and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong, boy,” he shook his head. “If that young man didn’t want to stick around, then he ain’t worth your tears, understood?”

The boy nodded, biting his lip to keep any tears at bay.

“Come on,” Hermes said, standing up. “I’ll pour you a drink.”

“I’m only eighteen,” Orpheus said.

“And I’m the god of commerce,” Hermes laughed. “I’m sorry,” he replied to Orpheus’ confused look. “I thought we were saying things we already knew.”

With his mood slightly lifted, Orpheus stood up to walk over to the bar.

Hermes knew there would be more nights like these. Some time within the next few years, the love of the boy’s life would walk through those doors. He’d be ready by then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, someone figured it out only two chapters in, but yes, all the chapter titles are references to Fleetwood Mac songs. Why? Because I'm writing this fic and I get to choose how to title things.
> 
> Also, the song I imagine Orpheus singing in this chapter is "Hero and Leander" by Adam Guettel. In the universe of the fic, Orpheus wrote it, of course.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this extremely self-indulgent fic. I had this idea because I wondered why Apollo wasn't in Hadestown, seeing as he's the one to blame if you're going to blame anyone. But gods don't take responsibility for anything they do, so...


End file.
